


Détente

by chadderc



Category: The Queen's Gambit (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, During Canon, F/M, Minor Character Death, Post-Canon, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:01:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27716495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chadderc/pseuds/chadderc
Summary: Vasily Borgov was a monolith, but his composure loosened over time. It flew mostly under the radar, but Beth Harmon noticed. She always notices. Borgov does too.
Relationships: Vasily Borgov/Beth Harmon
Comments: 38
Kudos: 200





	1. Introduction

The Soviet disposition was to be bored. Vasily Borgov was bored, and his face showed it. 

Nevertheless, there has always been intensity in apathy and a blank stare. No, not apathy––stone. It had been said that the face of Vasily Borgov was stone, as steadfast as the marble of his chess set––Soviet stoicism at its finest. His colleagues had observed his unnaturally static brows since he first started playing as a young boy. This offered Borgov his competitive edge, as very few were able to see behind the wall.

However indifferent Vasily Borgov appeared, he was not cold. This was, perhaps, the perspective of Borgov that the media saw the most clearly. They never focused on his own disposition, but rather on the effect he had on his opponents. It was as if the Soviet chess team was a collusion of Medusas, and the rule of the West was to never make eye contact. If the eyes are the windows to the soul and you were so foolish as to let yourself be read, Borgov would crush you.

Of course, not all Soviets were as closed-off as Borgov. Luchenko had, in his old age, grown accustomed to displaying affection, and his match with Beth Harmon was certainly no exception. Over time, as Luchenko grew softer, Borgov grew harder, trading places with one another as they grew older. Perhaps harder was also not the correct word for it. Borgov was never mean, never cruel. He did not scowl the way some Soviets under the government’s thumb did––artists and musicians and athletes who also excelled at the sensitive arts the USSR claimed for herself. Borgov’s eyes were never hard, just distant, and the marble caste of his face was not stiff, just unmoving.

So imagine the surprise in Moscow 1968 when Borgov loosened his tie. Not his chess-playing tie––he was as professional and upstanding as ever––but his emotional tie. A loosening at the corner of his lips, a careful smile, one iota of a raise in the center of his brow. The gestures were never big, and only one accustomed to watching Borgov with great care would notice.

Beth Harmon noticed.


	2. Tasting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She had never seen Borgov consume anything but water before––how luxurious now to watch him drink and eat.

It began with a sip. With the glass teacup at his lips, Borgov took an appropriately sized sample of the smokey tea the players had been offered, sloshed it in his mouth for a fraction of a second, then swallowed. There was nothing extraordinary about the way he drank the tea. In fact, it was such a mundane activity, drinking tea, that Beth could not help but be amused. Yes, they were being debriefed about the tournament, preparing for the start of the event, as the director spoke with the players and the media in the background. But at the end of the day, the world’s top chess players were simply all there, in the Palace Moscow, drinking tea.

There was something exhilarating about the banality of it all for Beth Harmon. It was the first experience she would call truly Soviet about the event, and she savored the opportunity to feel closer to them. Not one of them, but closer.

How similar were the teacups, no matter whose hands cradled them. The curvature of the metal handle against the detailed Podstakannik plate was the same in hands of Duhamel and Luchenko, Beth and Borgov alike, with the same ornate details on each. They were all one matched set, and yet, each drank their tea with minor differences, nuance in their characterization. 

Luchenko, for instance, was in the habit of putting his cup down between sips, and he did not so much nurse the beverage as abandon it, recalling its existence with quiet delight every few moments. Beth felt the heat against her own middle finger, which was slipped in the handle, while the remainder of her palm made full contact with the metal.

With a slight turn of the head, Beth observed Borgov, who firmly grasped the handle, holding the cup as if in an advertisement for how to drink. The gesture was absurdly masculine, and it lacked the refinement that could be expected of a woman holding the same cup. If Borgov were not so well-mannered in every other aspect of being, Beth might have called the gesture lacking in etiquette. The whole thing looked eccentric; it was as if the handle could not accommodate the size of his hands, which as Beth knew from their previous shakes before competition, were indeed quite large. Almost ironic that the two of them held the same mug, as though Beth deserved a smaller cup to be proportional to her own slender hand.

With a direct and concise motion, Borgov had more tea. His sips, while moderate, engaged his entire face, and his cheeks and jaw shuffled around as he tasted the tea. Suddenly the heat from her tea felt chilly, and Beth’s face flushed––a curse of her red hair and fair skin.

They were in public. She was watching something unnervingly intimate, domestic even. She felt like a voyeur.

At once she redirected her attention to her own drink, focusing on the acrid edge so as not to be distracted by Borgov. Both Beth and Borgov brought the tea to their lips in perfect harmony, unaware of the synchronicity but still perceiving each other’s gaze toward the center of the room. Again, one long chill ran from the base of Beth’s spine up her back and spread to her shoulders. Later that night when she returned to her room, she knew she would feel the same chill in her own solitude as she had earlier watching and feeling her opponent as he did nothing more than drink his tea.

…

The first dinner of the tournament was an elaborate spread served beautifully in the cozy dining room. The sheer attention to detail gave Beth pause before she went to eat anything. The phrase “too beautiful to eat” may have been a cliché, but it was that way with good reason. The guilt in her stomach grew until the daunting idea of taking one of the berry-adorned pieces of fish was impossible. 

Luckily the first course served to her was a rustic borscht, whose vivid color made it alluring, but it could not on its own be considered aesthetic food. Beth took a relieved spoonful of the soup and glanced around the room, the Russian players enjoying the company of each other and their spouses. 

At the head of the table was Borgov––as she expected––surrounded by two women to his right and Luchenko to the left. She knew from watching him in Mexico City that the woman directly to his right was Borgov’s wife but what she could not anticipate was the coy expression on his face as he spoke with her. Beth had never seen the two of them without their son, and she was taken aback by the level of affection they shared publicly. 

There was no physical contact between the two, but they were clearly sharing a joke––a private joke. Borgov’s lowered his head and tilted toward here, sharing an intense look, but what was that at the end? Was he waggling his eyebrows?

He was. Or, he waggled as much as Borgov would, which was closer to a single, asynchronous raise on either side with a knowing glance.

Averting her gaze, Beth refocused on her own soup, looking down at the plate in silence. She was once again isolated from the other players. Even though she spoke and understood Russian, which at least Borgov knew, none of them endeavored to engage her in conversation. 

She’d just as soon have it that way as well, enjoying the brief reprieve after her match. The game was short, but being alone was not nearly as fun for Beth Harmon when it was not a choice and the early stages of exhaustion were setting in.

Another look over at Borgov caught him sipping his water from the simple champagne flute in front of him. Or it could have been vodka, Beth was not entirely certain which it was. Borgov, however, sipped as if it were neither. Vodka was to be shot back, not savored or prolonged, and he consumed water more naturally, as she had seen during previous matches. He wasn’t even really drinking translucent mystery liquid––he was tasting it. Just tasting.

It was a stately and dignified night, and none of the players were rowdy or eating heartily. Yet none was more peckish than Borgov, a fact which continued to perplex Beth throughout the evening. She had finished her soup quicker than the rest, in part because she was not preoccupied with conversation, but mostly because when Beth ate, she ate. And when she drank, she drank. Beth did not taste; she devoured.

Beth devoured while Borgov tasted.


	3. Observing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She watches, but he does too.

Beth Harmon could always sense Borgov’s presence as if she had supernatural powers. The moment he entered a space, she knew, and once she knew, she could not let it go. She had to observe him, watching his every move as if she would miss some crucial bit of detail.

The obsession began long before she met Borgov in Mexico City. Beth absorbed every piece of information she could about Borgov throughout her teen years, even carrying around his picture from the Chess Review with her. From reviewing his games to watching him from afar, Beth observed.

In Mexico City when she happened upon him and his family at the zoo, Beth watched Borgov like a hawk, even though she had nothing really to gain from it. Following him in a casual setting was unlike watching a game; there was no obvious way it would be advantageous for her in the long run. She wasn’t seeing his strategic positioning or even getting a better sense of his ticks. She just watched him out of her own compulsive volition.

Later when she had the opportunity to watch his match against Bilek, she could not bring herself to do it. After two moves Beth felt disgusted by Borgov’s assuredness, and she refused to continue standing there while he sat and demolished this man from his neat little upright position.

Perhaps it was the crowd that did it. Beth had no interest in being a spectator when it was permissible––nay expected––to look on. Beth wanted to be a hunter, and Borgov was her kill. As such, she briskly left the crowd with a stride that was just short of ‘storming away’.

The elevator returned her to her sport. Watching. Listening. Even the proximity did not give her away because of the false presupposition that she could not understand the Soviets. Yet, she heard Borgov say that she was like them––a survivor. It meant that he had been observing too.

How closely had he studied her? Was she unaware that she was also being hunted? Unlikely, she decided, choosing to chalk Borgov’s comments up to a knowledge of her only in passing.

By Paris she could feel herself closing in on him, ready to go for the kill. Beth did not even need Borgov in the room––the specter of him was enough. As she sat down to review his completed game after the crowd had dispersed, she felt his presence from the difficult pin he had left his opponent in. His personality was within the game, and she could read him just from the pieces he left behind.

Beth brought it upon herself that she would become like a zoo animal. Observing is a privileged activity, and with it comes a position of unspoken power. She had been a heavy-hitter in the underground economy of noticing. But by arriving to her match with Borgov late and hungover, Beth relinquished any power she previously held. For the first time in her relationship with Borgov, she was truly powerless.  
…

The change in dynamic hit no one harder than Borgov, who found himself observing new details in Elizabeth Harmon he had previously neglected. Had her eyes always looked so sad? Since when did she hunch over like that, holding her hands on the back of her neck? Why did she look like she wanted to put her head down on the table in front of the board and pass out right then and there?

All these questions passed briefly through Borgov’s mind without much intent as he watched her clamour for the water. None of these was worth settling on, so Borgov returned to his thoughts about the game.

But then there was no game.

The greater the elapsed time between moves, the more Borgov became distracted. Without chess to preoccupy his thoughts, they continually returned to whatever was wrong with Harmon. The tears pricked at her eyes––Borgov couldn’t help but watch––and while he knew that she knew he was watching, it hardly mattered. She was distraught, and Borgov observed.

Upon exiting the hotel after his match, Borgov was accosted by the media. Cameras flashing everywhere, reporters asking how he felt about beating Beth Harmon again. His wife did a wonderful job translating, or rather sweetening the translation, making Borgov’s terse replies sound both thoughtful and concise. But they both knew the truth; Borgov’s mind was not at this press conference.

Even after she was gone, Borgov was still observing Beth.

A continuous replay of Beth Harmon on the brink of tears, suddenly breaking and resigning occupied Borgov for at least the next few days. The same as replaying a game of chess.

He studied Beth as if she were still there, attempting to answer the most elemental question: what happened?

Borgov decided in the week after Paris that he would watch more closely next time. He would be a better observer.

…

When Moscow came around, Borgov was prepared. He would be watching, just as Beth had watched him previously.

His first great opportunity was as the director announced their names. They were politely asked to sit in the rows of seats. Luchenko had set a precedent for leaving space by inclining and putting his feet up––a move Borgov had seen him make many times at various social occasions. One time, Luchenko even went so far as to lie down diagonally on a couch and the adjacent ottoman so that not a single person could sit near him. Some saw it as evidence of senility and indifference, but he had once confessed to Borgov in the Russian practice room at a tournament that he does it as a kind of prank, just to see how people will react.

Borgov positioned himself at the back of the line so that the other players filed in one by one, strategically choosing their spots a few seats apart and at least a row back from Luchenko. This offered the perfect opportunity to sit diagonally behind Beth Harmon.

From the corner of his eyes he could see her focus, her intent. She had not been this determined in Paris, even when she was sober.

Her head tilted to the side as she listened to their opening directions, lips slightly parted, and eyebrows cocked. Beth listened with mild curiosity––just enough to look engaged––but her face remained natural in its position. Borgov couldn’t see much of her expression, but he recognized the head tilt as one of open fascination. The young chess player was in Moscow for the first time, and Borgov was certain she was excited and terrified, no matter how evenly she managed to portray herself.

Things moved in a flurry throughout the rest of the tournament. Each day was both an eternity and the blink of an eye. The games were long and arduous, even when they were quick and easy, but then there was nothing left of the day beyond the chess and basic life preservation. Practice in the morning, lunch, practice in the afternoon, a light dinner, and a match well into the evening. Do the same thing again the following day.

All this meant that Borgov had little time to devote to his study of Beth Harmon. She played her matches just as he played his own, though Beth often seemed to walk out of a match first. He had seen this once in Mexico City; Beth Harmon ruthlessly wraps an opponent in his own tangled web and saunters away with all of the confidence in the world, hips swaying more than usual. She always performed it nonchalantly, and most spectators would see it as the earned confidence of a master at work.

Borgov, however, found it downright cocky, prancing about after she took someone down, particularly because the ripple effect of her hips exacerbated the swish of her dresses. Borgov could tell by the hemline of her skirts whether or not Beth Harmon had just won her match. And now that she was growing her hair longer––a style he had seen become increasingly popular in the Western world––her hair flipped in exactly the same way as her skirt did.

When her match against Laev was over within the first hour, he knew she had won long before she came swishing past him. And when she did cross his way, he kept his focus on the board, not looking over as Beth passed his table. He knew what she was up to as she sauntered past.

While Borgov knew that none of it was for his gaze and much more for her own edification, he swore that she strutted more fiercely when she passed his table than any others.  
She made him angry.

By observing her here in Moscow, he had brought himself nothing but distraction. But Borgov was bored, what could he do but wait and watch.

He made it a point that evening to request that Elizabeth Harmon be seated as far away from him as possible at dinner that evening. Luckily, being the Soviet state’s darling––at least on the façade––gave him the power to influence such small matters as the seating placement for the tournament dinner. The good company brought by his friends and his wife gave him some respite from his investigation, and the relaxed evening allowed Borgov to return to his normal tournament condition.

The following day when he heard the clapping begin, he knew it was Beth’s match against Duhamel which had finished. But her speed continued to perplex him, and he knew Duhamel to be a very worthy opponent––right at the top with Luchenko and himself. Borgov turned his head when the applause began, waiting for Beth and Duhamel to evacuate the table so that he could take a look at the game.

Borgov had never been anxious, and his professional reputation excused him from many crude actions coming off as such. Yet as he waited for Beth Harmon to do her victory walk away––which he swore was even slower and more deliberate after this match than ever––he felt his stomach turning. Feelings that he had never experienced in his life now made their way to the front of his mind. Borgov knew of the giddiness and excitement he felt mingled with nerves as he perched to jump from his chair, but he had only really heard them described by Western media. Hollywood movies.

They were not Russian feelings.

As soon as Beth passed his table, he leapt up to examine the game. Thankfully Hellstrom, his current opponent, had also turned to watch her leave, but he became indignant when Borgov abandoned their match for his own purposes. He could not help it. He had to observe Beth’s work.

Little did he know Beth was able to watch him in return, stopping to see her work before ushered out by her government guide. She was pleased with herself, not because of her win, but because of the response it elicited in Borgov. But Borgov did not know Beth’s endgame; he was too caught up examining her game to see that she had trapped him.

The next few matches Borgov made a concerted effort not to offend any other players. Hellstrom was likely the worst of the lot to abandon mid-game, his temper usually getting the best of him, but Borgov was able to maintain his notoriety because such occasions were always a one-off. Always. He used his move for, and he could not take it back.

Borgov’s focus prevented him from catching Beth’s knowing glance toward him after her own match with Hellstrom, but it was for the best. Luchenko had known him for years, and it would be doubtful that he would not mention a distracted look to Borgov later that evening in their practice room.

…

The first half of Luchenko’s match hit them all quite hard, and he was thankful for their strategy session during the adjournment. They had been at it for an hour before finding a few viable outs for their teammate. Three shots of vodka in for himself and Laev (Luchenko had abstained for the evening to sleep better) Borgov heard the dampened clomp of heels on the carpet. He could not tell if it was Luchenko, bouncing his leg from his position leaning on the practice table, but the open door gave him pause.

He was not nervous, not like he had been a few days prior, but he glanced down the corridor into the long hall to ensure no one was eavesdropping before shutting the door. He swore he could feel the same energy as the times he had caught Beth watching him, but she was nowhere in sight and her room was a good distance away. There was no way she had made it back to her room in heels in the time it took Borgov to get to the door.

Or so he thought.

He had never drank around Beth before, always an air of sobriety. With the exception of their opening night dinner in Moscow, Borgov had never been at a social event with Beth, and that night he sipped on his vodka, as if water, so he was never intoxicated. But now, three drinks in, he could not trust his senses. Was that Beth Harmon in the hall, or did he just feel tipsy when she watched him?

…

“ _You’re slipping,_ ” Luchenko said after several minutes of silence. Laev had returned to his Moscow loft about an hour before, having planned not to attend the tournament the following day, as he had no outstanding matches. Luchenko offered Borgov an extra set of eyes on his match with Duhamel, and although Borgov accepted, it was nominal only. He was not ready to turn in for the night and simply wanted the company of someone who understood. His wife and son were both supportive, but both would have retired for the night at this point.

“ _Slipping? What do you mean? I thought we were in agreement about pinning Harmon with h5. Do you doubt my suggestion?_ ” It was all very mild, Borgov neither confused about Luchenko’s assertion nor believing in a change of strategy for the match.

“ _Did you know that in the 25 years I have known you and worked with you, I have never seen you turn your head? Always straightforward, just like your playing style. I have seen you look to the side, but never could I have dreamed of seeing you actually use your neck and turn your body before. I did not know that it was a character trait of yours until I saw the contrary. All I meant to push was, are you alright?_ ”

The question was innocent enough. As was Borgov’s answer, really. He was fascinated by Beth Harmon and wanted to understand her.

“ _Yes, I appreciate whatever effort you have put into noticing this, but it is nothing of note._ ”

Luchenko stared at him for a moment before walking across the room, back to the table, and pouring himself a glass of the vodka he had previously rejected. He opened his mouth and closed it three times before speaking, putting together the puzzle of saying what he meant to but while also conveying anything but.

“ _Say whatever you will about Harmon, but I quite liked her dress today,_ ” he eventually offered, fingering his discarded ascot on the chair. “ _She is terribly stylish. I admire that_.”

“ _Is it not the custom in the US for all women to dress stylishly?_ ” The point fell flat. Was this a critique of Borgov’s own gameday suit? He’d made the decision to find bespoke suits for his competitions back in his late-teen years, as soon as he could afford to start buying them when he traveled internationally. Borgov liked his suit and found the red tint set him apart from the other Soviets. As if Luchenko’s own attire was not worthy of attention, Borgov thought, watching Luchenko bring the ascot up to his suspenders, as if checking to ensure they matched.

Borgov continued, leaving Luchenko to his fabric-comparing task. “ _It reminds me of the interview she gave in Paris. They asked about her critics in the federation who feel she is ‘too glamorous’ for chess. I believe she enjoys beautiful things and why should that not include her dresses?_ ”

It was actually something Borgov had noticed before. Beth’s wardrobe was beautiful, certainly an investment of hers, and Borgov was unsurprised that Luchenko took note of it. Luchenko had, in his earlier years, been quite drawn to haute couture––an interest which caused a fight between Luchenko and his KGB minders in London ten years earlier. Luchenko had wanted to attend a Pucci show, and in addition to the fact that he was absolutely not invited, the KGB saw the political statement of a Soviet chess player attending something so opulent in Western Europe absolutely repugnant. The episode culminated in Luchenko knocking on Borgov’s door, demanding the two of them break out of the hotel to stand outside the venue in the hopes of getting in.

Borgov, while not as old as Luchenko, was then in his 30s and had no interest in testing the boundaries of his limited freedom and international travel.

His mind returned to Beth’s own wardrobe, the beautiful outfits he had seen her wear every tournament they had shared. Her style was quite fashionable in a fleeting sense. Every year a new look, the dresses reworn for several seasons, but discarded as the trends changed. Borgov wondered if she had kept her old clothing, if it was still hanging in her closet back in the states. Did she ever put the white dress from Mexico City back on? Had she worn it since, or had it been retired, as if the tournament had tainted the outfit?

“ _Do you remember the Cardin she wore in Paris? I read about the match and noticed the dress, but the photograph was terribly grainy. Could you describe it to me?_ ”

Why was Luchenko pressing on this? What information was he really after?

“ _I am sorry, but I did not take care to check_.” Luchenko paused, looking up from the fabric swatches of his own clothing, and squinted at Borgov, just for a moment.

“ _It sounded like you had ample time between moves to look at her dress. I heard that she took quite a bit of time between moves. You know, I think I heard that from you, Vasily! Did you not think I would be interested?_ ” Again, another pause.

“ _My apologies, Leonid, I did not anticipate being interrogated about it several months later_.” Borgov’s tone was getting snippy, he knew this, and it was an attitude he had never had around his teammates before. He took a breath, steadied himself, and reflected. “I was worried about her. Between moves, I was waiting for the moment she would cry. I knew it was coming, but when the tears broke, I was surprised all the same.”

“ _Be careful that when you play her yourself you keep your focus, yes?_ ” There it was, the real motivation behind Luchenko’s inquiries. He was saying that Beth had distracted Borgov, and not in a good way. Borgov longed to be distracted. Distracted from his career in which he had to stay at the top or else suffer real political consequences; distracted from his domestic life in which he and his wife consistently struggled to raise a child; distracted from his political reality. To be Soviet is to long for distraction, Borgov thought to himself.

With a nod to Luchenko and a promise to keep his eye on the prize, Borgov started for the door. “ _Leonechka, you said when I play Elizabeth Harmon, not if. Are you afraid of what will happen tomorrow?_ ”

“ _I have never been more certain in my life that I will be annihilated. And I look forward to it._ ”


	4. Fastening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How lovely to touch another person, for just one moment to become one being. Or, the first time Beth initiates a handshake.

Growing up, Borgov did not like to touch, but he did like to fasten. Something about touching always seemed exceedingly sensual to Borgov, a luxury that humans so often claimed was a need. The physicality of touch never held much pleasure for Borgov, though he would concede that he did appreciate the corporeal manifestation of pride. For Borgov there was a deeper assurance in a firm clasp of a hand on a shoulder, a hearty hug, a handshake. Touching was done in strokes, caresses, but Borgov craved that first moment of contact alone.

He reached out first. Their handshake in Mexico City had been completely average, if Beth was being honest. It was not the firmest she had received, nor was it the shortest. It could not even be said to be the most professional or even the most bureaucratic––Borgov’s specialty. It was stolid. Everything about it was mediocre, and Beth did not like the mundanity.

 _Borgov’s not a machine. That she knew of_.

Her conversation with the twins resonated throughout her match against Borgov that day. Everything about his mannerisms was in fact machine-like and coupled with the distant gloss on his face and his relentless attack on her pieces, she now believed it to be somewhat true.

She was playing a computer––almost.

The accost continued, each move digging Beth deeper into her hole. Through her visions of Mr. Shaibel, she saw only the blank machine of Borgov, her mind oscillating between the two as if they were the same. The circumstances were, however, entirely different now than before. He was nothing more than a pretty canvas to project onto, Beth laying her worst fears and greatest aspirations atop his blank visage. By the end of the match, she refused to make contact again. Crumpling into herself, Beth knocked her king over and darted away, denying Borgov the handshake that he would have wanted. That he deserved.

It was a rash decision. She had been humiliated, of course, but Borgov deserved the sportsmanship every player did. And by refusing to shake his hand, Beth left the wound wide open.

…

Paris had not been much different.

After her bender with Cleo, Beth all but trotted into her match late. She knew how it must have appeared to him––a petulant teenager openly defying the incredible low bar of not being a dick to one’s opponent, who time and time again refuses to acknowledge and appreciate the dedication and prestige of her adversary. She was aware it looked that way, but only Beth knew that it wasn’t true. None of her decorum––or lack thereof––was to do with Borgov. It was all her.

Of course, there is simply no polite way to say that.

Again, in Paris at the Remy-Vallon as in Mexico City, Borgov reached out for an opening shake, which despite Beth’s abysmal tardiness and etiquette, she accepted. This time the clasp was voracious, Beth trying desperately to compensate for her appearance and lateness. Borgov accepted the shake, but the gesture felt artificial. Robotic even. The performative vigor of the downward strike and the minute bounce in the shake were insincere and unlike the slow, genuine grasp they shared years prior.

Beth noted that from the handshakes she could not read much information about Borgov’s hands. Were they rough, hardened so that the tenderness was made distant like in his eyes, or were his hands soft themselves, offering a deeper perspective invisible from a distance? Without movement, Beth could not tell.  
  
Prior to 1967, Beth would have said that to touch someone is to know someone. Perhaps not to their fullest extent, however the intimacy offered by a touch was far more valuable than what the eye offered.

Except for Borgov, in which case, neither held any meaning whatsoever. Beth changed her philosophy about the handshake after that match.

 _To touch is to know, yes, but simply fastening is not_.

Not wanting to be known in her darkest professional moment, Beth ran, leaving Vasily Borgov alone at the table with his victory, but no shake.

…

Moscow was a dance for the better part of a week, Beth and Borgov circling each other but never meeting, as if they were two lines slowly converging on an inevitable point of intersection. They had tasted, they had observed, but even still they had not made contact. With Borgov in her orbit, Beth promised herself that the collision would be epic.

Days passed with matches and social obligations weaving back and forth, and Beth began to feel the heat of Borgov’s stares. While she had always aimed to make him notice her, Beth’s success in this endeavor cultivated a finely tuned radar for when she was being watched. Occasionally the heat was overbearing, like a laser cutting into her back. Most of the time, however, it was warm and comforting, all-encompassing and imprecise.

She thanked herself that she entered her final match with Borgov from the southern side of the hall, behind his back, for if he had watched her enter the long corridor and visually awaited her arrival, she was certain she would have tripped. Even without feeling Borgov’s gaze, Beth was acutely aware of the burgeoning flush rising to her cheeks, and she felt a familiar shiver down her spine in anticipation. All eyes were on her, but none were more scorching than the suspense Borgov must have felt. And despite the sudden onslaught of attention to her own mannerisms, she was able to make a dignified entrance, the clack from her shoes simultaneously gentle and firm as she made her way to the other side of the table.

The moment she saw Borgov, Beth thought it was the happiest she had ever seen him, dinner a few nights prior excluded. Or perhaps, it was the happiest Borgov had ever been to see _her._ His eyes were open wider, the right side of his mouth cocked into a welcoming smirk without provocation. From the angle where Borgov sat before her, Beth thought the look was almost coquettish––a mixture of delight and coyness, putting just the right amount of pleasure on display. Borgov stood to greet her and once again offered his hand, his expression morphing from repressed delight to earnest respect.

 _Third time’s the charm_ , Beth thought to herself, and she brought her right hand to meet his. This gesture was more languid this time than the others, the duration of the shake fluid and natural, though also slow and deliberate. It was truly the only one Beth would consider a proper handshake, though its propriety also set her on edge. Because this time the handshake involved real movement, it did not escape Beth’s notice that she could feel Borgov’s hand for the first time. As they slid apart, she noticed that his hands were neither soft nor hard. They were average in texture, but their stature intimidated her. Without breaking eye contact, she could feel her demure hand swallowed by the wave of Borgov’s. In that moment, they became one force before they parted again.

As Borgov removed his hand, he did not simply unclasp and remove as he had previously. This time he pulled his hand back such that his index finger dragged along Beth’s palm. Beth felt a searing path exactly where Borgov had traced, the intimacy of the gesture overwhelming her. To be known by Vasily Borgov was one thing, and after Paris he certainly knew her. But to be touched by him, caressed in such a clandestine way was another entirely. Snapping back to reality, Beth took her seat, placing her hands in her lap as Borgov’s elbows came to the edge of the table. She rebuilt a wall between the two of them––their competitive wall––which erased the scar still burning from her wrist to her heart line.

…

The adjournment was short. By the time Borgov made it back to the Soviet practice room the night was largely over, and all he wanted was to sleep. He collapsed into an ornate armchair by the table which held their board and forcefully pulled his green and gold patterned tie away from his throat. Borgov noticed that his game had already been set up, likely by one of his teammates who snuck out quickly while he was speaking with the media. He hoped to get back to his chambers and relax without considering the game, but there it was, at every turn.

How many minutes passed while he sat lifeless in the chair, Borgov was unsure, but he was shaken from his reverie by Luchenko’s gentle voice.

“ _That is my favorite tie of yours, Vasya, always has been. I am glad you chose it for the occasion_.” Luchenko walked over to the side of the room by the window to pour himself some vodka. The clinking of the crystal glass and the ceramic pitcher should not have bothered Borgov, but the resonance seemed amplified, as if everything in the world were too loud and too bright.

It felt like a hangover.

Borgov managed to access the lone iota of charm he had left in him for his dear colleague. “ _Is it lucky? Who is to say. But I have only lost three times in this one and more in the others_.”

“ _That is because this one is your most recent acquisition, and you know that. Do not pretend that what happens tomorrow will be the result of anything other than her skill and yours._ ” Although he knew Luchenko meant to mollify him, Borgov winced at the laissez-faire hand waving.

“ _What is ‘skill’ Leonechka? I mean that quite sincerely. You and I both know that Harmon is a better player than I am, if not now then soon. Yet, she resigned in Paris last year. Was that because she lacked the skill? I am beginning to think the ideas of talent and experience are fickle, choosing when to grace us and when to smite us. Everything––and everyone––that goes up must come down eventually._ ” Borgov wiped the sweat from his brow with his right forearm forgetting that he was still wearing his suit. He stood, gently discarded the jacket over the back of the chair, and crumpled back into the chair while undoing his cufflinks.

“ _Ooh, a new accessory––might I have a look?”_ Luchenko held out his hand for the cufflinks while Borgov grappled with them. _“Vasya I see you are struggling, do not rush on my behalf. You are tired, as you should be. I am surprised you are here and not deep in slumber. But it sounds like you are having some difficulty facing our mistress, Fortuna.”_ Luchenko popped up from the odd position he occupied in the other armchair, one leg draped over the arm while the other was firmly planted on the ground.

Pacing around he continued, “ _Are you familiar with the notion of Rota Fortunae? Fortune is a water mill, cycling in one direction forever. The bottom will eventually reach the top, and the top will inevitably fall to the bottom. But the beauty is the very periodicity you seem to loathe. If you are turning down right now, you will reach the top again. The perch might appear different the next time you rise, but it will be back, you’ll see_.”

“ _You say that as if you have been back on top, Leonechka_.” His jaw set. It was a low blow, and Borgov knew it. He didn’t snarl, but he felt the malice bubbling in the back of his throat, loosening the corner of his jaws as if he were about to vomit.

“ _Like I said, sometimes Fortuna will look different the next time she returns. I faced the best chess player of my life a few days ago, and it was exhilarating. I know you do not intend any of the bitterness you have offered me, Vasya, but I am going to need something to console myself, lest I think you are cross with me_.” Luchenko waggled his eyebrows and brought his hand to Borgov’s shoulder. The pressure felt good, and Borgov relaxed into his friend’s touch.

“ _Here,_ ” Borgov passed over the cufflinks he had managed to wrangle free “ _take a look. And I am sorry for my harsh words, I am merely tired_.”

“ _Vasya how do you not see that these are the answer to your ennui!”_ Luchenko held one of the twins up to the light, examining the gilded face.

“ _Leonechka, I am not one for fashion the way you are. You know I enjoy my ties, but beyond that––“_

“ _No, don’t you see? Sputnik! Your cufflinks are Sputnik_.”

This was true––the cufflinks had been a gift from his wife several years back and bore the famous logo.

“ _Do not forget the roots of Sputnik_ ,” Luchenko advised, “ _a fellow traveler, a companion. Even in your darkest moments, do not neglect that Elizabeth Harmon will be your companion_.”

…

Their hands met again the following day, though it was really going through the motions. Borgov could sense assuredness mixed with anxiety from Beth’s body language, and Beth could see an additional wearied line on Borgov’s forehead that was not usually visible. Both avoided eye contact while the tournament director shuffled with the envelope and restarted the timer. As the match continued, Borgov felt his victory evade him, turning its back and sashaying out the door. All he could do was enjoy the ride.

After a move he was particularly pleased with, Borgov sniffed aggressively and shrugged his shoulder around, as if the crispness of that one sequence would redeem his play. When Beth’s eyes floated the ceiling, Borgov followed, but then set his gaze upon her. He made a point not to look at the faces of his opponents during matches unless necessary for communication, but for the first time he had unrestricted access to Beth’s face. Paris had been a notable exception, for Borgov could not help staring at Beth, trying to understand what was happening. This moment, however, was different. While she was focused on the game, Borgov got to observe Beth Harmon in her truest state.

Borgov’s eyes raked over Beth’s face, relishing the chance to remember every detail about this moment. His big loss. He noticed her hazel eyes, of course, absurdly round and saucer-like as the gazed upward. But he also noticed her lips, so beautifully painted with crisp lines to accentuate the cupid’s bow. The color was quite nice as well, a muted rose that was pink but with a brown tinge that highlighted her eyes and brows.

All of this, of course, set against her stunning hair, which Borgov could pick out of a crowd immediately. Borgov thought for a moment that the curl and the ends of her hair swished the same way her clothes did, performing a certain _je ne sais quoi_ which Beth did not so much value as exude. As her eyes reset on the board, Borgov flitted his eyes for a moment before following suit.

When he offered the draw he vaguely hoped Beth would accept, for his own sake. One loss would not be the end of his career, but he knew the government would keep a closer eye on him given the magnitude of the home match and his opponent’s country of origin. But when she refused, Borgov felt nothing but relief. Inside, that was, but he also had an external game to finish, and knitting his brow he persisted.

Several moves later, Fortuna finished her work for both Elizabeth Harmon and Vasily Borgov. When Beth realized the position she was in, she reeled, a cautiously hopeful gloss on her face. But mixed with the optimism there was disbelief, an error Borgov sought to eradicate for her.

His companion.

“It’s your game,” his lips twitched upward into a grin he would he would have called silly if he could see it. “Take it.” He offered the black king, hoping that Beth would accept it. When she wrapped her hand in his, Borgov was relieved and reveled in the brush of her thumb against his palm. Although he was the one who sacrificed the piece, he wished it were not there, and instead he would just take Beth’s hand. He would have hoped she would understand what it meant and taken as much pride in fastening their hands together as in taking the king, but it was a moot point. There was an awkward piece of carved wood between their hands.

The spindle at the top was, thankfully, out of their hold, but the other curves were not as soft as one would hope, and Borgov certainly wouldn’t want to squeeze harder. He needed more contact. Bringing her up out of her chair by the hand, Borgov walked her out from the table and out of their cocoon. He briefly felt as if he were presenting her to the audience and giving her away, but internally Borgov knew it was still a moment between the two of them, fused together. He nodded at Beth, an assurance that he was here to support her, that he wanted to be her companion, and Borgov pulled her into a hug.

Wrapping his arms fully around Beth’s smaller frame, he was careful to make the hug earnest but not too tight. She was stunned at first, but Borgov felt her sink into the hug after a moment. The pressure was impeccable.

He knew it was selfish to keep her there, to keep Beth’s victory between the two of them, so moving his hands to her shoulders he returned her to the domain of the spectators, taking a step back to laud her like the rest of them. She deserved it, and in that moment Borgov knew what Luchenko had meant. He was thrilled to be defeated by the great Beth Harmon.

…

The next hour or so was a flurry for both Beth and Borgov. Media debriefings, conferrals with government minders, and autographs all demanded immediate attention. When Beth was finally able to break away from the press room, she turned to see Borgov and Luchenko awaiting her attention.

“How long will you be staying in Moscow?” Luchenko inquired, a straightforward question with no niceties or congratulations, as if they had already been exchanged (they hadn’t).

“Only until tomorrow morning, we have a flight at noon,” Beth replied, turning to see her guard looking around, excited to be part of the victory, but also impatient to leave.

“Oh well you will be around tonight then, yes?” Borgov wanted to confirm before offering any invitation.

“Yes, but I’m not exactly sure what to do with myself.”

“I am hosting a small celebration, in honor of the woman who broke the status quo. You must attend, my flat is only a few short blocks away from here.” Luchenko beamed at Beth, and Borgov knew that he absolutely would not take no for an answer.

“Of course, actually if we leave right now, we might be able to escape notice––quick!” Beth tried to rush out of the building, encouraging Luchenko and Borgov to bustle with the same urgency, but a hand swooped out and caught her shoulder.

“Where do you think you’re off to?” She heard it as her minder spun her around, away from the two Russian players.

“I will be attending a soirée with these two,” Beth raised her eyebrows as high as she could, shifting her eyes back and forth between the set of Borgov and Luchenko and her bodyguard. She hoped that if she was overt enough with the messaging, he would take the false hint that they were trying to signal her or have her carry a message back to the US government.

He pulled her away by the arm, much harder than Borgov had corralled her just an hour before. “What part of do not leave the hotel unless you’re with me don’t you understand?”

“Look, they are both interested in speaking with me and learning about my _American_ life, but I don’t think anyone at that party would be happy with the US state department lurking around.”

He took one deep breath in and let it out with as much exasperation as he could muster. “Fine, but remember to be up tomorrow by 9:30.” He rolled his eyes and marched in the other direction, not-so-secretly pleased to go back to his room.

The walk to Luchenko’s flat was immensely pleasant in the cool air, and Beth and Luchenko laughed and smiled like old friends, with Borgov trailing behind. When they arrived at the flat the door was open with a party already in full swing. Every wall was lined with people leaning and chatting, and the few chairs were highly sought-after resources, constantly occupied.

When Beth and Borgov had finally squeezed their way into a sparsely populated corner of the kitchen between the stove and the counter, Luchenko had disappeared elsewhere in his home.

“Do you live in Moscow?” Everyone at the party spoke in jovial, yet respectful registers, but Beth had to project to get her voice through the ambient sounds of the party.

“No, my family lives in Leningrad. I am staying in the same hotel as the other players.”

“So, do you like being in Moscow? I feel like I’ve missed the chance to really _be_ in the city.”

“I like Moscow, it is a good city to visit. My apologies, I do not know that I will be able to answer your questions well in English.”

“ _Oh, I don’t mind if we switch. I’m happy to practice my Russian, as long as you will be patient with my mistakes_.” Beth looked down to the floor and gazed back up, her head still tilted, to look at Borgov with a wry grin. She noticed he too wore a smile on his face, this one much bigger than any look he offered while playing. The expression was still muted––all of them were compared to her American colleagues who wore their hearts on their sleeves––but even the smallest changes seemed gargantuan compared to the chess player she had come to distantly know. This was Vasily Borgov in his element, the Borgov she had seen at dinner the first night of the tournament.

“ _Of course, I am always happy to help with practice_.” A crowd of four burst into the kitchen, breaking up their conversation. Beth recognized the sad eyes of Shapkin but no one else in the group. They all wanted to congratulate her for her win and to facetiously comfort Borgov for his loss. Beth was pleased they wanted to talk to her, but she was also mildly irritated they had interrupted her conversation with Borgov. She felt she had known Borgov for years from following his career and hunting him down, but now that the dust settled, Beth realized she knew nothing about him.

Borgov excused himself to the living room so that the others could get their time with the victor. Beth learned that two of the three unknown players studied with Luchenko and were attending university, but they would never be competitive chess players themselves. The other stranger was not a player but a childhood friend of Shapkin’s who lived in the city. He admitted to not understanding the game beyond basic tactics, but he felt he lived chess vicariously through Shapkin.

After congratulating her and finishing their introductions, the Russian gaggle commenced a conversation amongst themselves about football, to which Beth was a total outsider. She took the opportunity to appreciate the space Luchenko had curated. Everything about it was boxy and stale by design, but Luchenko had painted backsplash areas of the kitchen in a vivid bottle green color. What the appliances lacked in appeal, the beautiful dishes on display easily compensated. Various teacups and saucers, all antique-looking but none of them matching, adorned the tops of the cabinets, shrinking the perceived size of the room by about a foot.

Through the arch to the next room Beth could see Luchenko holding court among a captivated group. She could tell he was a gifted storyteller and had to be the life of any party. Even through his calm wisdom, Beth sensed a wild spirit popping through. Scanning the crowd she hoped to see Borgov, but she could not find him.

Excusing herself from the group, Beth wandered out of the kitchen and past the living room into the front hallway. There she caught a glimpse of Borgov, huddled in front of the tiny TV set atop a bookcase.

“ _I wouldn’t have guessed you were a fan of watching TV,”_ Beth elbowed him in the arm gently before realizing that it might have been an overly friendly gesture for the nature of their relationship. Or worse, one that did not translate and was read as an attempt to actually hit him in the gut.

Luckily, Borgov seemed to understand its intended connotation and shrugged. “ _Sometimes the familiar sounds are enough to keep me satisfied_.”

“ _I’ve never been one for TV––too noisy. But this is nice, it’s,”_ Beth paused to look for the right word before settling on one that was imprecise, “ _different from American TV. What are we watching right now?”_

“ _This is the Mescherin Orchestra, pretty much the sound of the USSR_.” This was the sound of the Soviet Union? Beth scoffed internally as she looked at the screen. Black and white coverage of the ensemble members hunched over odd-looking instruments glitched, and she instead elected to listen to the music without examining the visuals. It sounded like beach music, a lazy ukulele melody with some strange, glitzy effects that sounded like stars interpolated throughout.

“ _What are they playing? I mean, what instruments are these?”_

 _“Excellent question,”_ Borgov noted with a jokingly cocky demeanor. Was this how he was when he coached? This Borgov, Borgov in Moscow, was entirely different than the one she had known her whole life. “ _All of the instruments in the ensemble are electronic, so what sounds like a bassoon or a violin is actually an effect on the Ekvodin.”_

Ekvodin? Beth felt that she was suddenly in the Twilight Zone––which was ironically the only TV show she really liked––where words fit the right syntactical positions, but she couldn’t make meaning out of them. Perhaps this was just what it meant to learn about a new culture.

“ _The Ekvodin is like a piano, but it is all electronic, has two keyboards, and makes different sounds to imitate other instruments. See, it’s this one here,”_ Borgov reached for Beth’s hand guiding it to the lower left-hand corner of the screen.

Beth felt the heat of Borgov’s hand and arm running alongside hers, the same kind of burning she felt when she knew he was watching her. Suddenly, she was hit in the stomach with an anxious force compelling her to fully acknowledge what had happened that day. Beth turned her head into their joined arms and back to see Borgov’s face.

“ _Thank you, Vasily, for everything_.”

“ _I should be thanking you. You, Elizabeth Harmon, have breathed new life into the game, and I will spend my entire life trying to beat you.”_

 _“Lucky for you, you’ve already done that. Twice. And it’s Beth.”_ She felt a familiar tickle along the side of her neck, one that pushed her to be reckless and bold. She stifled the tingling, bringing her arm back and turning to face Borgov head on. For the first time, she was the one who offered her hand to shake.

“ _Beth,”_ the Russian pronunciation of her nickname sounded harsh to her ears, and not at all what she wanted to be called by these people. “ _It is nice to meet you Beth Harmon. Please call me Vasya.”_ Borgov cocked his eyebrows, shaking her hand. It occurred to Beth in that moment that in the rush of her act, she had offered Borgov her left hand, knowing well that they were both right-handed. Perhaps it was the heat in the small apartment or just the high of winning, but her hand slipped up, her finger sliding in the space between the underside of his wrist and his watch.

Borgov smiled but gave her a questioning look and mimicked her action. Beth’s watch was tighter, and the metal band did not offer any slack. Instead of ending their contact, Borgov smirked and made a silly ordeal of using his other hand to unclasp the watch band. When he successfully loosened the watch, he slid his finger under to match Beth’s.

With an unexpectedly vigorous shake, Borgov continued, “ _I am glad we have our own handshake now. I anticipate many more in our future.”_ Beth hesitantly nodded and removed her hand from Borgov’s forearm, redoing her watch so it would not be damaged.

How lovely to touch another person, for just a moment to become one being. Beth had the startling thought that if she could be a ‘one’ with a person, to be someone’s partner, it would be Vasily Borgov. Or maybe it was just Vasya, the man she had uncovered in Moscow from under a dark furrowed brow. More likely, it was both. By any name, she wanted to know the man so enthused to shake her hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience! Rest assured, this story is not abandoned, even if it is going up slowly.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for starting this journey with me! This story will start durning the canon and carry out (with most of the juicy stuff) post-canon. I'm thinking seven real chapters, but the later ones might make the story longer, so tbd.


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